


More Than You Needed To Know

by modestlobster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Detention, F/M, Firewhiskey, Forbidden Forest, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid tonks, Giant Squid - Freeform, Leaky Cauldron, Minor Character(s), Puddlemere United, Quality Quidditch Supplies, Sorting Hat - Freeform, Thestrals, Witch Weekly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-01 17:05:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8631799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modestlobster/pseuds/modestlobster
Summary: More than you ever needed to know about how Benjy Williams became Puddlemere United's infamous playboy and Seeker.
CH1: Nymphadora Tonks, Donaghan Tremlett, Charlie Weasley, and Benjy Williams get Sorted.CH2: Post-War. Benjy encounters Hermione Granger.CH3: Tonks, Donny, Charlie, and Benjy as 2nd Years.CH4: Post-War. Benjy runs into Angelina Johnson.





	1. Four Corners

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [When We're Dead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8631910) by [modestlobster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/modestlobster/pseuds/modestlobster). 



And then there were four.

Nymphadora Tonks.

Donaghan Tremlett.

Charlie Weasley.

And Benjy Williams.

Four last little first years waiting to be Sorted to their respective Houses – whichever they might be. Which was a matter of copious conversation among the aforementioned four in their travels prior to their arrival at this very moment, standing before the faculty and the whole student body of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

For in the time since departing from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters via the Hogwarts Express, the girl and the three boys became fast friends – thanks in part to a particularly pedantic Head Boy who insisted all of the first years sit together in alphabetical order on the train, so that they would be most prepared and efficient come Sorting time.

Even so, the rest of the students in the Great Hall were getting restless, more than ready for the start-of-term feast to appear magically before their eyes. Professor McGonagall consulted the end of her long roll of parchment, even though she already had each of the new students' names committed to memory since receiving their owls at the end of July.

Her eyes flicked over her square-rimmed spectacles to the motley group of four.

"Tonks," McGonagall pronounced clearly and concisely, "Nymphadora."

If that sprightly pixie of a girl could have breathed fire (as she sometimes so wished), she would have instantaneously incinerated the parchment bearing her given name, as well as all sources of audible snickering from the four long dining tables within the Great Hall.

But instead, the dark eyes in her heart-shaped face merely twinkled with bloody murder as she obediently crossed in front of the teachers' High Table to a lone stool, upon which sat the ratty Sorting Hat. Tonks, quite pleased that she had, in fact, managed to not trip over any nothingness en route, quickly climbed atop the stool and perched quietly whilst she was beHatted.

The boys hadn't been quite sure what to make of this girl at first, but, naturally, the three of them simultaneously developed school-boy crushes on their school-girl comrade-in-arms. Her mother (Andromeda) had been a Slytherin, she had told them, but the thought of such a fate for the twee creature that was sharing their train compartment had instantly dissolved the conversation into fits of cacophonous laughter on the boys' part, coupled with a kind of blustery indignation from Nymph— (" _Tonks!_ My name is _Tonks_. I don't care what you've heard…" She had fixed each of them with a steely glare and a pointed flourish of her wand. "Call me Tonks, or it'll be a week before they can even find or start to remove these Every Flavour Beans from your brains!") —uh, Tonks.

By the time the first years had disembarked from the boats which carried them across the lake and over the domain of the giant squid and the merpeople, the boys offered that they had changed their minds, if their theory that a wizard or witch could be sorted according to their appearance were indeed true, as Tonks' normally mousy hair had turned a rather violent and sickly-looking shade of green. ("Very Slytherin." Benjy had assured her.)

" _Wotcher!_ " Came a muffled and exasperated cry, at the same time as the Hat announced, _"HUFFLEPUFF!"_ to exuberant cheers from yellow-and-black clad students at one of the dining tables. Tonks upset the stool upon dismount, but made it the rest of the way to join her housemates relatively unscathed, stealing a few furtive glances back at the three boys from underneath her lightly bobbing fringe of now-blonde curls.

Professor McGonagall made an extensive mental note of the budding Metamorphmagus' abilities, then eyed the remaining boys, two of whom (the red hair clearly belonging to another of the Weasley brood) were light-heartedly jostling the third, who sported an unwavering great mane of brown hair.

"Tremlett, Donaghan." She beckoned him forth.

Charlie had reckoned that Don ("Or what about 'Donny'?" The red-head suggested. "Nah, bosh! It's Donaghan." had been the reply.) would get Gryffindor just for looking the most like a lion of any of the first years. This had rapidly degenerated into a discussion about where the school would then put Charlie, as he was the only troll-faced student Benjy claimed to have ever seen. Tonks amicably offered to rig the proceedings so Charlie wouldn't be alone, as she could transmorph her face into a pretty decent troll impression.

 _"RAVENCLAW!"_ The Sorting Hat shouted quite suddenly, and the last two boys clapped out of shock, both knowing they would never themselves make it into that House which values wit and wisdom above all else, whilst wondering what else Donaghan had not mentioned to them (or they hadn't asked about) on the train.

"Weasley, Charles." McGonagall nodded the stocky, freckled boy towards the stool.

A raucous whistle sounded from the Gryffindor table as Charlie took a seat. That would be his older brother Bill, already a third year. Charlie had been a bit worried, hoping he would live up to the reputation of—

 _"GRYFFINDOR!"_ There really wasn't any doubt. Charlie couldn't contain his broad smile and tossed the Sorting Hat lightly into the air before bounding off to join his brother.

And then, of course, there was only "Williams, Benjamin."

Benjy locked eyes briefly with Professor McGonagall as he walked across to retrieve and put on the enchanted Hat. He wasn't afraid, and not just because he was the last (and thus had seen the whole rest of his year Sorted), but because he had taken all of the Professor's words to heart, and he truly wanted to know who his House – his family within Hogwarts – would be. Who he would learn and spend his free time with, who he would earn House points and win the House Cup for. He wanted to fulfill Professor McGonagall's entreaty and be a credit to the House that would be his.

The battered old Hat covered his eyes, vanishing the thousands of floating candles, the tables laid with golden dishes, the hundreds of staring students, teachers, and ghostly faces.

In an instant, it would all be his. He would belong to a House, and have every right to the whole of Hogwarts as anyone else. Everyone a king in this single kingdom. He, a master of nothing (as yet), but also servant to none. Friends all within reach, and more beyond. They would all be his. And when the Hat was lifted, tugging up his shaggy, ash blond locks, it would reveal an impish – but truly happy – grin.

Nymphadora Tonks was a Hufflepuff.

Donaghan Tremlett was a Ravenclaw.

Charlie Wealsey was a Gryffindor.

And Benjy Williams was – and forever would be – _"SLYTHERIN!"_


	2. Interlude: Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-War. Benjy Williams encounters a certain bushy-haired know-it-all.

_Every little thing she does is magic_  
_Everything she do just turns me on_  
[Sting  & The Police]

* * *

It did not seem strange now to find people (witches and wizards alike) sitting in pubs and taverns across the country at times which were formerly considered indecorous hours for the partaking of that placid pastime of drowning one's sorrows with drink.

It was not the barkeepers' faults for enabling the country in such a way, as it were, though they were indeed the ones who decided when to open and shut their doors; no one had the strength to begrudge someone else of earning a living in those days, weeks, months of the aftermath, simply for the fact that 'living' – and all things associated with it – became one of the wizarding community's most precious commodities. Once again.

Still, that said, it _was_ somewhat… peculiar… to find _her_ sitting in The Leaky Cauldron at midday, an empty glass and another half-full (always the optimist) before her, with such a distressed look upon those pursed lips.

And while the War had afforded everyone a free pass for all the distressed looks that they could ever wish to employ, _hers_ was not one haunted by those common atrocities of the very recent past. Not at the moment, anyway. No – something else was dismaying her.

Benjy Williams did not stare, did not even glance at her, as he walked up to the bar and stood at the far side of the barstool nearest hers. He waited patiently, without a word, for Tom, who was still alive and still the barkeep, to serve him. It was a busy day, after all – as they all were, during times such as these.

She couldn't help it. It was subtle, the irritated tapping of clean fingernails against a dirty bar glass, which he was supposed to notice, and he did.

"Can I get you another firewhiskey, love?"

The query sounded more polite, she thought, than it really should have. Perhaps it was the lingering remnants of his Australian drawl, combined with countless hours, she imagined, of social coaching he certainly must have undertaken as a professional Quidditch player.

Still, it was a surprise that he somehow sounded genuinely apologetic (neither simpering, nor leering), as though he had read her mind that he was invading her personal space.

She then realised that she had not yet answered the question.

"I'm _not_ drinking firewh–" She started haughtily, then stopped abruptly and contemplated the diminishing liquid in front of her.

He had seen it before. Not just during the War. Either she had progressed to whiskey and had forgotten that she had; she had, and was in denial about it; or she hadn't yet, and now thought better of declining.

"It's alright, love." He said softly, and he meant it, in every sense possible, whatever the circumstances proved to be.

When Tom at last had a moment to acknowledge his presence, Benjy flashed two fingers at him and nodded once.

Two squat tumblers magically appeared on the bar, between Benjy and the proprietress of the sudden, exasperated laugh resonating beside him.

"I'm not _stupid_ , you know."

"No, darlin', wouldn't imagine they'd call you the smartest witch of your age for nothing."

She rolled her eyes, ignoring his comment and how it made her want to blush, despite the fact that she had heard that line nearly too many times to count by this point in her life.

"I _know_ who you are." She clarified her original positing.

"Mm, well, then I'm sorry…" A smirk played at the corner of his mouth. "Afraid I haven't a clue who you are, Ms. Granger."

Hermione glanced askance at the shaggy-haired wizard, whilst he took advantage of her admission to familiarity as an invitation to finally sit down on the stool next to hers.

"Or is it 'Mrs. Weasley' now?" Benjy briskly lifted one of the tumblers to his lips, but the mirth could still be seen in his eyes.

"Oh, _please_." She huffed. "I'm barely 20."

"Times change, don't they…" He mused aloud.

"You're one to talk of it, Mr. Williams."

She knew for a fact that he was only in his late 20s, and still a bachelor – not that she'd done research on him or anything of the sort, it was just… one of those random details, which happened to stick in her brain. In fact, she could probably sort all the Quidditch league players in order of their age, with reasonable accuracy, if someone asked her to.

He nearly corrected her 'transgression' (usually some variation on "Please, love… 'Mr. Williams' is my father…" would get him to a first-name basis faster than a Firebolt in freefall), but from what he knew of Ms. Hermione Granger's character, he would have been forthwith addressed as 'Benjamin', rather than 'Benjy', and that, arguably, was far worse than 'Mr. Williams'. So, instead he just smiled at her.

"Did you know…" He began, whilst her hand strayed to the other tumbler of whiskey. "That Purebloods once used to marry their daughters off at the ripe old age of 13?"

She was proud of herself for not choking on the first sip she took. (Or the second, for that matter.)

"Yes, I'm _quite_ familiar with the history of magic; magical families included. And might I just say," she said, flames flickering quickly through her veins, "I've often thanked Merlin that I'm just a _'filthy little mudblood'_."

She knew full well that the sentiment would draw furtive looks from the Leaky customers as their ears were still so sharply attuned to such hateful speech, ever ready to quash even the hint of lingering support for the defeated Dark Lord, or advocacy of the Death Eaters' ideologies. But she didn't care. She wanted to see Benjy Williams squirm.

But he didn't.

His eyes surveyed her intently, and he spoke softly and calmly.

"I'm on your side, darlin'…"

It was true, of course. She knew that he had been one of the many who came and fought and opposed Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts. Yet, it did nothing to change the fact that he was a graduate of Slytherin house; her bias against the green and silver-tongued serpents as yet unassuaged.

"Yes, it must feel good to know, in hindsight, that you picked the winning party."

"Not just that."

He was smart – maybe not book-smart, but intelligent enough; a simpler buffoon would have risen to the bait of argument, for argument's sake. Not he.

She dared to look in his eyes, then – really look – and she saw it. She couldn't explain it, but she had seen it often in her own eyes, or so she thought, when she looked in a mirror.

'Muggleness' was the best she had come up with, though the term was too indelicate and inane for her liking. But nevertheless, it conveyed something – a kind of appreciation or understanding; a tacit awareness or memories, at the very least – of things non-magical.

It was something a certain Ronald Weasley lacked.

Not that that was necessarily a good or a bad thing. It was just… a thing.

She set the firewhiskey aside and returned to nursing her other rather half-forgotten drink, which seemed disappointingly less potent.

"The War's over, Mr. Williams; I'm not looking for a new comrade-in-arms."

"Is that right, love…" His empty tumbler now joined hers. "So, you're _not_ sitting alone in the middle of London's busiest pub waiting for your admirers to fawn over you?"

"Well, I _certainly_ don't see them all lining up for the chance; do _you_?"

Her eyes narrowed reflexively, but she suddenly felt embarrassed, like she had somehow admitted something she didn't even know she was thinking. He had cornered her, trapped, and tricked her into it.

So she spat the accusation back at him. "So, is that what _you're_ here for? Hoping to sign a few autographs?"

"Not today, love. My only signature will be paying the bar tab." Benjy shrugged simply. "I might pick up yours, too, though it's hardly a consolation for your efforts in defeating one of the greatest dark wizards of all time."

" _Quite_ the knight in shining armour, aren't you…"

The sarcasm was palpable, but he answered honestly, as if it were a legitimate question.

"No, darlin'. I'm not."

He certainly wasn't; he was nothing at all like Ronald, who, so many years ago now, was quite literally a knight (albeit not in any armour, shining or otherwise), who helped Harry (and, well, herself) thwart Voldemort's earliest advances.

"What a shame." Hermione admitted truthfully. "The world could use a few more."

"It doesn't take knights to make the days safer, love."

She normally would have welcomed the excitement that flared in her at even so modestly clever a turn of phrase as that, but instead she felt rather disconcerted by the stimulation.

"He wasn't _great_ , you know."

"Sorry?" Benjy tapped his empty glass on the bar and it dutifully vanished itself.

"Voldemort _wasn't_ one of the 'greatest' dark wizards…" Hermione stated stiffly. "There's nothing _great_ about what he did."

"I misspoke."

She gave a curt nod. "Yes, you did."

"I meant – if you'll allow it…" Benjy inclined his head deferentially. "That he was one of the most _powerful_ wizards that ever lived."

"And _died_."

"Yes, love… That's the important part, isn't it." He spoke the words gently; he could tell (from far too much experience) that there would be tears in her eyes already, and thus, it would be his fault if they went so far as to spill down onto their owner's countenance.

"I don't understand how men get seduced by such _monsters_ …" She loathed every part of the creature which Voldemort had become.

"Come now, darlin'…" Benjy gave her a sly smile. "You're no monster."

She had to laugh. It was absurd.

"I _hope_ you're not suggesting that I'm seducing you, Mr. Williams."

"You're far closer to succeeding than Voldemort ever was, love."

She allowed herself the briefest of smiles – a genuine one – which he noticed, which she didn't altogether mind.

"What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Williams…"

Hermione could tell he was doing a quick calculation in his head.

"Shall we shift somewhere more private, hm?"

But what the summation was, she wasn't quite sure.

"I'm waiting for someone, actually." She glanced nervously at the Leaky door. "I said I'd meet them at the bar."

Benjy's eyebrow quirked at this new information. "And he's not clever enough to figure it out otherwise?"

" _She_ …" Hermione cleared her throat. "She _is_ clever enough. But…"

"But, _Merlin_ , what would _she_ think…"

His impish smile returned, as though it was the natural expression his face chose to wear. Hermione wondered, for a fleeting moment, if the witches who found (or lost) themselves in Benjy Williams' bed saw that very same smile bestowed on them, and whether or not it remained even when he was in the throes of slumber.

"Are thoughts really so dangerous, darlin'?"

"Of course they are." She shook any trace of reverie from her head. "The Wizarding Wars – and every muggle war – all started with thoughts. With _wrong_ thinking."

"A change of seating is hardly an act of war, Ms. Granger."

She fixed him with a glower of admonishment. "But even the _hint_ of a wrong impression often goes spiralling out of control. I think you've had enough experience with The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly which attests to that."

"Fair point; I'll grant you that." He didn't need to look around the pub to know how many Quick-Quotes Quills were already scratching away as it was. "But can you imagine the headlines, love…"

Evidently Hermione could, and her cheeks reddened at the thought. She wasn't quite sure whether this would go over better or worse than any of the times the press had paired her romantically with Harry. _Honestly, Ronald… it's ridiculous, and you know it._ How many times had she said that… and how many more times was it necessary?

"I don't suppose you're trying to start the next War already, Mr. Williams…"

There was something very indecent about discussing the topic with such casual abandon. But she sort of _enjoyed_ it… this acting detached from it, as though she was nothing more than an ignorant outside commentator rather than having been a first-hand observer and participant. She wouldn't dare dream of trivialising the circumstances with the Weasleys.

Maybe she needed this… A partial – and temporary – escape from the things that were.

"Darlin', if there's ever a War started for the sake of convincing every witch in this world that they're beautiful…" Benjy donned a look of sincerity, which made Hermione shiver. "I'd be the first man standing on the front line."

"Your crusade would be much better served by any Helen of Troy than a former _'bushy-haired know-it-all'_ , you know. I rather seriously doubt that _I_ would make the papers fly off the shelves any faster, even so much as paired with _you_."

" _Au contraire_ , darlin'…" Benjy gestured subtly to indicate the full citizenry of the Leaky Cauldron. "People love happy endings."

 _A happy ending_ … The idea was entirely laughable. Hermione was sure her life couldn't be further from that fairytale notion.

" _Provincial_ people prefer gossip, which a happy ending _hardly_ makes." The corner of her mouth twitched tensely. "And _cultured_ people _prefer_ a more _probable_ conclusion."

His eyebrow again raised itself aloft. "What, we aren't convincing enough for you, love?"

"First of all, _'we'_ aren't _anything_." She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "And secondly – _no_."

"Then I'll have to respectfully beg to disagree."

He suddenly shifted off his barstool and sank down onto one knee, grinning, intending to quite literally beg her pardon, and knowing full well how it would appear to those bearing witness.

Hermione looked – and felt – like she had been Petrified.

" _What_ are you…" She growled at him, her eyes wide in alarm. " _Why_ are you _doing this?_ "

Benjy casually turned his attention to the floor and protractedly fumbled with his untied shoelace. "Because there happened to be a pretty girl sitting here at the bar, looking like she wasn't having the best day that she could be. So I thought I'd buy her a drink while I try to figure out how to make her smile."

Hermione rubbed her left temple and exhaled her irritation.

"If you thought _this_ would do it, Mr. Williams, I'm afraid you need a little more practise."

"Every wizard does, love."

The pub patrons had quieted down whilst watching the blond's antics, their conversations completely dissolving into a hush of anticipation as he retrieved something from his back pocket and stood, intimately close to – _Good heavens, you're right, it_ is _that Granger girl._

She found it hard to refrain from thinking that he smelled nice, the fresh air of a thousand Quidditch practises infused with his natural musk. He coaxed her hand from its firm grip on the bar counter, then wrapped her fingers around something – cold, hard, heavy – that he placed in her hand.

" _Sorry_ ," She scoffed loudly, even through her gritted teeth. "But _no, thank you!_ "

A sudden wave of feminine gasps informed Hermione that she was (and indeed had been) at the centre of attention, and the victim of fallacious context.

She tried to shove back the short stack of galleons Benjy had forced upon her.

"I'm afraid I _can't_ accept this –"

But _Mr. Williams_ had already turned away, no doubt playing up his recent miserableness of existence to all the witches in the room for all their worth in sympathetic sycophancy.

These were desperate times indeed.

" _Benjy –_ "She hissed at him (as it was, she knew, the best way to talk to a snake). " _I don't_ need _your money._ "

"Then it's not for you, love." Benjy whispered over his shoulder. "Buy your friend a drink for me, hm?"

She stood up and slapped his galleons onto the bar, to pre-punctuate her own proposal.

"Why don't you wait a few more minutes. Then you can buy her one _yourself_ – and solve _her_ problems. I would _dearly_ love to see how you would make _her_ smile."

"Sorry, love." He could feel the sharp edge of her words, so he turned ever so carefully to face her. "I've already helped my quota of witches today."

"Take your gold, Mr. Williams." She implored of him. "We won't be drinking."

"No?" He didn't think her a liar, but it was a strong assertion to make.

"No. It doesn't bring anyone back."

"No." Benjy agreed. "Not the dead, anyway… But it always seems worth a try."

He studied her chestnut eyes one last time, as though they might be a primer for whatever he was off to undertake next.

"Darlin', it's my estimation that a person who didn't lose someone in the War, either didn't have any friends – or any enemies."

It was an obvious statement but in the tone of it, it was neither intended to belittle her or make himself sound wise. She wondered whether he was saying it because it was a thing that he could not – or had not – said to someone else.

With a courteous nod, Benjy Williams left Hermione Granger alone in her wonderment.

His galleons remained on the bar.

* * *

"You look like you've seen a ghost." The redhead mused aloud, as she kissed her friend's cheek in greeting.

"No… Just a jester." Hermione sighed wearily, but gave a slight smile. "One that makes the fool I've got seem unequivocally valedictorian in courting my affections."

"That's certainly saying something." Ginny laughed.

* * *

 _**LOVE-STRUCK SEEKER** _  
_**B. WILLIAMS BLUDGERED** _  
_**BY H. GRANGER'S REJECTION!** _

Or so read the bottom-right-corner of Witch Weekly's latest tawdry excuse for wizarding news. The article – if one were mistaken enough to call it that – decried the heartache of Puddlemere United's most formidable bachelor, whilst forecasting Benjy's persistent (but ill-fated) pursuit of the bushy-haired man-eater, immediately followed by his depressive downward spiral into unrequited ennui, the only cure for which would doubtlessly be a romantic rebound, which Witch Weekly owned the exclusive rights to, and would be sending one very lucky reader on an all-expenses-paid rendezvous with the Seeker extraordinaire.

Hermione realised there was nothing more appropriate to do except love Ronald Weasley all the more for – howsoever predictably – getting angry and jealous about it all.

Despite his blustery rage, Ron was actually quite chuffed to have found another perfectly-justified reason to hate Puddlemere United.


	3. The Dark Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2nd Year Benjy finds more trouble with Tonks, Donny, & Charlie.

It was one of those stunningly beautiful days, the kind which the newspapers (wizard and muggle alike) would write about, regardless of whether it happened to be a slow or busy news day – the sheer lifelihood, and livingness inherent in it was eminently newsworthy. It was the kind of day where children of all dispositions would not have to be told to go out and play by their parents and caretakers, for they would already have disappeared into the outside world, the laugh lines of their faces deepening in colour on account of the magnificent afternoon sun.

Ordinarily, pleasant weather (in and of itself) was never to be justification – under any circumstances – to prune short the duration of a wild-growing pupil's disciplinary consequences, and it would seem to be especially imprudent in the case of such a pupil who needed particularly remedial level help (as this one did) to improve his Transfiguration performance. However, this _particular_ student, having presently rendered Minerva McGonagall momentarily speechless, was deemed to require nothing further than immediate dismissal to somewhere ( _any_ where) far far away, in order that McGonagall might objectively contemplate the conundrum he had just inadvertently presented to her.

"Out," she bid the young Benjy Williams, upon the return of her vocal chords to their full functionality.

" _Out."_ She shooed the Slytherin boy away from her desk, as though he were a curious pup that had followed its mischievous nose a bit too far into its master's kitchen, whereupon it discovered itself underfoot a tempestuous chef preparing an important, impending repast.

" **Out!** " The heavy wooden door of the Transfiguration classroom swung itself open, quite literally showing the boy out. "I advise you to go now, Mister Williams, before I change my mind. I am quite sure you will find your astonished friends awaiting your appearance at the Alder tree aside the lake, as per your usual fashion."

Benjy was bewildered but only a moment as he stood outside the now-firmly-shuttered door. He hadn't even gotten the chance to suggest to the Professor that the sunshine would do his growing head (he would have meant his growing _brain_ , but perhaps 'head' would not be an altogether inaccurate choice of words) more good than being stuck inside a musty classroom. On top of which, he hadn't needed to then resort to promising that he would think about Transfiguration the whole rest of the day.

Merlin, he was getting good at this.

After a brief detour down to the Great Hall to pilfer whatever remnants of afternoon tea had not been vanished yet from his House's table, Benjy Williams made his way to the lake where three students sat beneath an Alder tree, taunting a tentacle of the Giant Squid with half-eaten sandwiches.

Charlie Weasley noticed the arrival of their blond compadre first. "Bloody hell, you're _mad!_ If McGonagall catches you out here –"

Benjy just grinned at him.

"'Twas McGonagall that set him loose." Donaghan Tremlett intoned from beneath his mane of brown hair.

Benjy merely shrugged, still grinning, in reply to Donny's Ravenclawfully correct deductive reasoning, whilst every one of Charlie's freckles looked just as incredulous as their owner did.

" _Willingly_ set me loose," Benjy added, knowing full well that the reputation of his House undoubtedly always conjured up images of rampant (though improbable) misuse of a Cruciatus or Imperius curse or two, no matter what year the student was.

"What did you say to her, Benj…?" chimed in the fourth member of their quartet, with an equal mix of scepticism and wonderment in his expression as he pushed the hood of his black and yellow-lined school robes down and away from his heart-shaped face.

Benjy shook his head, perhaps to better bounce the silvery memory of his conversation with McGonagall around inside his mind. "All I asked was if the horses I saw in the Dark Forest last night were the same ones that pull the carriages to the Castle at the beginning of term…"

Donaghan and Charlie shared a profoundly dumbfounded look between themselves, clearly asking the same question of one another: _Horses? Do you remember seeing any horses?_

The colour quickly drained from the Hufflepuff's face, however. "…Y-you can see _thestrals_?"

"Mm? What's that?" Benjy's eyes brightened at the prospect of this new information. "Is that what they're called, Teddy?"

Wide eyes and the tiniest of nods met Benjy's attentive gaze. "…W-who did you see die?"

Professor McGonagall had asked the exact same thing.

A slight, perplexed frown sprouted at the corner of Benjy's mouth as he pondered this, but he was provoked out of a more prolonged silence by the progressively suspicious stares he was receiving from his keenly captive _(no incantation of Imperio needed)_ audience.

"I didn't _kill_ anyone." Benjy professed, accurately interpreting their accusatory looks. He shrugged again. "It was my mum that died."

"Your _mum?"_ Charlie choked out, suddenly imagining the state of the wizarding world were his own Molly Weasley to disappear off the face of the Earth.

" _Merlin's minced daisy roots…"_ mumbled Donaghan, raking his fingers through his tresses reflectively. "That's dreadful really."

Teddy's spiked hair began to droop intuitively and develop into a doleful drab colour, whilst he probed further, "Benj, why didn't you tell us before?"

The Slytherin boy had no reply to this and found himself shrugging again, in lieu of a proper answer.

"Doesn't matter, alright…" Benjy knelt down in front of them and set to work drawing a crude map in the sandy lakeside soil with his wand. He looked up briefly. "I want to figure out how to get back in there to see them again."

"See what?" Charlie blinked.

"In where?" Donny raised a brow curiously at the emerging diagram.

"The… the _horstrels_ …" Benjy added wings to the stick-figure horse he was illustrating in amongst the stick-figure trees. "In the Dark Forest."

" _Thestrals._ " Teddy crept in closer, his voice hushed conspiratorially. "I thought the Forest was out of bounds, off-limits to students…"

Charlie snorted. "If they expect anyone to remember that, then they should give it a better name."

"Mm," Benjy agreed. "Something like, 'Beware of… Hm…"

"The 'Be-Wary Woods'?" Donaghan suggested.

Charlie nodded his approval, cuffing the Ravenclaw on the shoulder. "Spot on, Don."

Benjy wrote in the newly-christened name beside his picture of the formerly 'Dark Forest'.

"But if you get caught…" Teddy sighed, hating to be the boring old voice of reason. "You _were_ just in double detentions."

Benjy glanced up, considering the Hufflepuff for a moment. It was true, after all, that his detention was sort of partly all Teddy's fault (in the first instance anyway). It had been going on for almost a month now; yet, even at the start, it had not really struck Benjy as odd. Tonks was Tonks, whether she was 'she' or when she was 'Ted', which was now exclusively the case when she met up with the three boys. It didn't bother them at all if she took to the idea of being 'one of the boys' a little more literally than most people would expect.

But then, they were only 12-year-olds. Not all of the other students were so open-minded. It started with a few whisperings in the halls on an otherwise slow gossip day; _someone_ noticed _something_ different, and so it was just a matter of time until one bully with nothing better to do (which was not an uncommon occurrence) decided to stick their finger in the pie, and try to make a mess of things.

In fact, it was one of Benjy's House-mates (one of the true-blue, snake-blooded breed of Slytherins, whose parents obviously instilled the noble teachings of intolerance from birth onwards) who made the first forthright affront. Benjy was on his feet in one moment, his balled-up fist finding the 4th Year's face in the very next. Charlie Weasley then came barrelling over (but too late to do any damage), and Donaghan stood defence with Tonks/Teddy, wands at the ready.

It all stopped almost as soon as it started. Professor Snape _leviosa_ -ed his two serpents up by their right ears the entire way down to his office in the dungeons. Benjy got one night's detention with Hagrid in the Dark Forest; the other boy reportedly had cauldron cleaning duty for the following afternoon. (Getting punched in the face proved the less severe offence.) As usual, Benjy's somewhat mysterious lineage to the Australian Williams' wizarding clan maintained his credibility in the House, as it seemed to justify his odd penchant for doing things differently (like voluntarily fraternising with other Houses, much to Professor Snape's dismay).

"It's just something I have to do…" Benjy's eyes flicked over to meet Charlie's. "And I'm not expecting any of you to risk going with me to do it."

"Oh _wotcher_." Teddy cleared the (non-chocolate) frog in his throat. "Don't expect me and Donny to come cheer you two up when you get kicked off your Quidditch teams."

Charlie's face reddened; the thought hadn't occurred to him. He and Benjy were only on their respective House teams as Reserves, so their match time was limited-at-best already. But lack of playing time wasn't a reason to just throw away the opportunity to play at all, which they had both worked so hard to earn.

"Benjy might get away with it," Donaghan offered logically. "On account of his mum and all. But Charlie…"

Donny simply shook his head. The odds were not particularly in Charlie Weasley's favour.

So, it was settled then.

They spent the rest of the afternoon devising a plan to get Benjy Williams back into the Be-Wary Woods that very night.

Charlie's Gryffindor bravery. Donny's Ravenclaw cleverness. Benjy's Slytherin ambition. Tonks' Hufflepuff loyalty.

And the Giant Squid's… (Well, honestly, the Giant Squid was really not much help once the sandwiches ran out.)

• • • • • • •

He still got caught.

And earned himself another detention.

(And learned himself that detention in the forest with Hagrid was not the worst fate a unruly student would face at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Especially when Argus Filch had anything to do with it.)

Headmaster Dumbledore did agree, however, with Benjy's blustery positing about the name of the 'Dark Forest' being too ambiguous of its consequences, and assured the boy that he would promptly rectify the situation at breakfast the next morning, with a much more appropriately discouraging designation.


	4. Interlude: Angelina Johnson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [***]: A/N: Read the rest of what happens to George Weasley in 'When We're Dead': http://archiveofourown.org/works/8631910

_Blame it all on yourself  
_ ' _Cause she's always a woman to me_  
[Billy Joel]

* * *

She was loud when she wanted to be.

But she never overdid it – no, she knew better. Otherwise, it would entirely lose its desired effect.

She knew there were certain times when loudness was required for the situation. Whereas other times called for deadly silence.

This was _not_ one of those 'other times'. Merlin, no – silence was _not_ an option today.

And whilst she much preferred circumstances that required a happier kind of loudness, she would not shirk the corresponding duty of being adequately loud during less-than-favourable affairs.

"You git!" thundered Angelina Johnson, in a way that carried through to every corner, nook and cranny of Diagon Alley as she stood outside a certain Mr. George Weasley's joke shop, her finger in said George Weasley's rather freckly and rather flabbergasted face.

"I just bloody noticed." She continued, more quietly now that the entire wizarding community in the surrounding quarter-mile radius was suitably staring in their direction. "How long's it been like that, George? How bloody long? It's not bloody funny. At all."

The threatening finger veered upward toward the joke shop sign, where it settled ostensibly within George Weasley's line of sight and lingered on the solitary punctuating mark which defined the ownership of the Wizard Wheezes that could be found within the shop.

Now, Angelina Johnson was no tyrant – nor expert – in matters of grammar, but this one thing she knew: Her (former) boyfriend, Fred Weasley, and his twin brother, George Weasley, had left Hogwarts in their 7th year to start a joke shop, and they named it _"Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes"_ – which indicated the brothers' joint proprietorship of their business endeavour.

The sign above the shop, however, now currently read:

WEASLEY'S WIZARD WHEEZES

And she didn't need a Ravenclaw or a Hermione Granger to tell her how many Weasleys _that_ implied.

In lieu of a proper argument on the matter, however, George attempted to weasel his way out of his due consequence by unscrupulous means.

He _hugged_ her.

The whole of Diagon Alley flinched as a loud _CRACK!_ subsequently assailed their eardrums. (Unless you were a first-hand witness to the scene, you might have assumed George Weasley's head had been snapped clean off. But in actual fact, Angelina had – in one fluid movement – flicked out her wand and rather violently summoned a ladder up against the building's façade.)

"Fix it." She commanded.

Or I'll fix _you_. Was the nonverbalised ultimatum.

And, despite having only one ear, George Weasley did not have to be told twice.

She stormed away across the Alley, looking to find something to properly throttle, as her ginger-head boy was now out of arm's (and harm's) reach, standing obediently on the rooftop of his shop. [***]

But instead of a proper whipping boy, Angelina found _him_.

They weren't unknown to each other. Beside the fact that every witch over the age of 13 knew who he was (whether they followed the national Quidditch leagues or not), Angelina had encountered Puddlemere United's Seeker enough, even in the brief time that she had been training with Tutshill, to consider him a professional acquaintance, at the very least.

And, it seemed, they shared a penchant for seeking solace within the sporting confines of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Benjy Williams cast a lazy glance up from the latest edition of _Quidditch World News_ upon hearing the shop's entrance bell ring; that he found _her_ at the receiving end tugged one corner of his mouth up into an amused smile.

It was hardly a challenge, but then, Angelina was a Johnson and Johnsons were not very particular when it came to certain things. So she rounded on the blond soundly, invading the forward nook of the shop which housed a couple over-stuffed armchairs and any-and-all vaguely Quidditch-related trade publications (which routinely arrived via owl-post on a regular basis), piled high on a low table.

"Is there something I can _help_ you with?" She asked snippishly.

 _Such as wiping that stupid bloody smirk off your face?_ She thought to herself, as loudly as she could, in case he could read minds (one of the many rumoured talents that swirled about the Seeker's reputation).

"Sorry, love, not really." He shook his head, his grin spreading across his lips all the more as he did so. "You see, I was just admiring how tempestuous Tutshill's newest Tornadoes are…"

He set the issue of _QWN_ down, open to the detailed spread of the latest England teams' rosters, where the players' photos (A. Johnson included) were clearly – but mutely – trading insults with their rival teams. (Except for B. Williams' profile, which appeared instead to be trying to win over the nearest Harpies players.)

"…And that's when you walked in." He merely blinked, perhaps waiting to see if she would transform into a cyclone on the spot.

"Best be careful, _Mr. Williams_." She volleyed a dangerous smile back at him. "'Cause you're only seeing the eye of the storm."

"Is that right…" He leaned back in the armchair and considered the witch standing before him. "Well, it's a captivating sight."

Angelina gritted her teeth, in a rare show of restraint, and plucked a new copy of _Witch Weekly_ out of the pile of publications on the table and slowly twisted its spine back into itself.

"Don't get the wrong impression, _Mr.–"_

"'Benjy', please, love."

"– _Williams._ I'm not like other witches. You can't just charm your way out of your indiscretions with me."

He raised a brow. "I've been being indiscreet?"

"Well," She flung the _Weekly_ at him, catching him square in the chest. " _That_ hasn't won you any mates, I'm sure…"

"Mm." Benjy glanced at the rubbish/magazine as it slid down into his lap, then shrugged nonchalantly. "Not the first dumb thing a Quidditch player's ever said – and it won't be the last."

Fire flared briefly in Angelina's eyes. "There's a bloody big difference between stupidity and indecency."

"True…" A smile crept back onto the Seeker's features. "Ignorance is bliss."

She shook her head. "Think it's high time someone enlightened you."

"By all means." Benjy shifted into a more comfortable position and linked his hands behind his head, baring himself defenceless to the lioness pacing before him. He could see several glittering sets of curious eyes in his periphery; 'creatures' hiding safely in amongst the dense forest of shelving and its foliage of Quidditch products and bargains.

She stared him down as her hands plucked up another copy of _Witch Weekly_ and her fingers nimbly located his latest 15 minutes of fame.

"In case you've forgotten the plot already…" She cleared her throat in a way that rattled through the shop. "It says: _'When asked what he thinks of the Department of Magical Games and Sports' recent proposal to reduce the scoring value of catching the Golden Snitch, Puddlemere United's Seeker Benjy Williams replied…_ "

Angelina paused a moment, as though expecting him to recite the following lines for her, "And I quote:" she continued, "' _I don't have an overblown sense of self-importance… But I do know that while I'm off looking for the Snitch –"_ She reflexively bared her teeth. " _–Everyone else is just playing with their balls.'_ "

A muffled commotion throughout the store suggested a bevy of savvy Quidditch-minded consumers were suddenly remembering and resuming their purchasing decisions.

To his credit, Benjy Williams nearly managed a genuine look of solemnity as the Tornadoes' Chaser bore down on him, awaiting his justification.

"Have you ever tried to impress someone, love…" He began simply.

Her eyes narrowed. "Of course."

"…And did it ever not quite work out?"

"Well, he's dead now," Angelina spat out at him. "So I wouldn't bloody well know."

"Mm." He said thoughtfully, sitting up a little straighter.

Angelina cocked her head slightly, eyeing him humourlessly. "Did you really think _'playing with their balls'_ was going to _impress_ someone?"

"Sometimes blokes make mistakes." Benjy tapped the curled _Weekly_ against his thigh. "Should've known she was a _Witch_ reporter."

Her look darkened. "Then, I take it, you don't regret saying your not-bloody-funny little joke, you just regret getting caught with it."

"Look, love…" He tossed the tabloid onto the table. "As much as you're chasing an apology, I don't think it's actually me that you need one from…"

"Oh, is that bloody so, _Mr. Will_ –"

"I'm a firm believer that everyone's allowed to make mistakes, love," The Seeker studied her earnestly for a moment. "So, whoever's wronged you – if they didn't mean to – then let it go."

"…And why should I?" She folded her arms across her chest.

Benjy shook his head. "I'm just trying to save you some heartache, darlin'…"

Angelina's brow arched upward defiantly. "Just what do you think you're protecting me from?"

"Mm," He thought aloud. "Missing out on the present, for the sake of… trying to fix what's already past."

"Well, the 'present' I've been given feels like an even worse joke than _that_." She frowned and dropped her copy of _Witch Weekly_ onto the table with the others.

"And if it's not a joke, love…" He ventured, knowing he was well past the point of treading lightly upon the subject. "What if this was given to you for a reason?"

"I still don't want it." Angelina could feel her war wounds beginning to re-surface in her eyes. "It's a 'gift' that needs to be taken back and exchanged for something _worth keeping_."

"Except going back's not an option…" Benjy pushed himself up out of the chair and stepped within arm's reach of her, careful not to encroach so far as to warrant a show of claws. He tucked his hands into his pockets and leant against a display case of hand-wrought bludger bats. "Focusing on what you've lost – instead of what you've gained – is a mistake I've made myself. And I know the pain that's carried with it, so I can't in good conscience let you do the same thing."

"I thought 'everyone's allowed to make mistakes, _love_.'" A somewhat triumphant sneer crept into Angelina's countenance. "Bit of a double standard you've got there, if I'm not allowed to live my life, doing what _you_ think is a 'mistake'."

"Just realise then," He gave her a sympathetic half-smile as he slipped past her. "That you can only make any mistake once – it's not an accident the second time round."

"See you on the pitch, Williams." She muttered.

He stopped and tilted his head in the direction of the abandoned _Quidditch World News_. "Harpies have a spot opening up next season; I'll keep my fingers crossed for you."

She growled out a deprecating laugh. "Like I could ever be a Harpy – besides, I do enough damage as a Tornado…" She paused for a moment. "But I _do_ know a red-headed Siren, who should be ready to professionally 'play with some balls' by then."

Benjy coughed. "Is that right…"

Angelina rolled her eyes. "You can save your fingers for her if you like."

"Mm," He pulled open the shop door, the bell announcing his imminent exit. "Maybe I will."

"Just take care, _Benjy_ ," She called after him, with a wicked smile on. "'Cause she's already been spoken for by Britain's best Auror-in-training…"

 _And_ that _is a mistake you won't even want to make once._ Angelina thought loudly, and rather happily.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [When We're Dead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8631910) by [modestlobster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/modestlobster/pseuds/modestlobster)




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